The Rose and the Oleander
by woolhat
Summary: Shortly after Apollo moves back from Khura'in, he catches a flight to the East Coast to meet up with Klavier. On board, however, he is confronted with a man he never thought he would-or could-see again. This encounter brings back some memories that Apollo is deeply ashamed about.


Apollo was seriously running late.

He ran through the airport as fast as he could, ignoring the glares from other travellers as he unavoidably cut them off. He was dragging what was surely the largest checkable bag in the building, weighing so much that a wheel had popped off a few dozen gates ago. The suitcase screeched as it scraped across the tile.

"Excuse me…I'm so sorry," Apollo said quickly to a woman who was forced to step out of the way to avoid collision.

He was catching a flight across the country to Atlanta, where he was to meet up with Klavier in a couple of days. He was finally going to meet Klavier's parents for the first time since the two had started dating almost five years ago. The elder Gavins had relocated to the East Coast upon retirement a couple years prior, and Apollo quietly theorized that there were probably additional unspoken reasons they were eager to leave California. He was careful not to voice this.

He slowed down, a bad cramp piercing his side. He cursed his failure to keep up with his jogging during his extended stay in Khura'in. But his suitcase was so _heavy_. He'd neglected to unpack when he returned to California and opted to just take his existing luggage with him to his trip to Georgia. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but his back and upper arms were really going to pay for it and it was slowing him down.

"Excuse me! Wait!" Apollo reached the gate named on his ticket and frantically pulled it out of his pocket. He shoved it into his passport and slid it across the counter to the man standing behind it. The man exhaled loudly through his nose.

"You really can't arrive this late, sir," he said, but he picked up Apollo's passport and scanned his ticket anyway. "You'll have to move quickly." He slid the passport back to Apollo and nodded towards the entrance to the jet bridge.

"Thank you, sir!" Apollo ran off, thanking the Holy Mother that the man didn't ask to weigh or measure his bag. He hauled it down the jet bridge and arrived at the plane before they closed the door.

Smiling awkwardly at the disgruntled flight attendants, Apollo maneuvered himself down the aisle with his bag in front of him. Every seat on the plane was full, and each and every one of the passengers glanced up at him as he sidled by. Finally, he arrived at his seat: an aisle seat on the left-hand side of the plane.

He quickly pulled his bag up to the overhead compartment and shoved it in. Against all odds, it fit nicely. He breathed a sigh of relief and sunk down into his chair, panic and fear floating away. He stuffed his backpack under the seat in front of him.

The man next to him didn't look over. Apollo absolutely did: he was nosy and wanted to get an idea of who he would be spending the next five hours with. But he was also an anxious and careful person, so he made sure to look over discreetly. He turned his head to the left slightly and looked over as best he could.

The man had earbuds in his ears and was staring out the window. He shifted closer to the left when Apollo sat down, but made no other sign of acknowledgement.

It was better than an obnoxious person making endless small talk, Apollo concluded. He accepted his fate and reached into his backpack for his book.

The crew went through their usual safety speech, pointing out exits and demonstrating the oxygen mask procedure—help yourself before you help others—and standard seat belt rules. The plane roared to life seamlessly and they were soon driving down the tarmac to begin takeoff.

He couldn't see very well out the window because the man sitting beside him was leaned against it. Apollo's view was mainly the back of the dude's head: brown hair cropped short in a boring cut. Beside him, he saw a sliver of sky grow larger and more orange around the setting sun as they gained altitude and flew above the clouds.

He quickly gave up on trying to see out the window and went back to reading the novel he packed. He soon became completely absorbed and the world around him disappeared…

"Sir?"

Apollo realized someone was speaking to him. He looked up to see a flight attendant standing next to a cart full of drinks.

"Would you like anything?" the woman asked. Apollo shook his head and thanked her. He turned to the man next to him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

The man took out his earbuds.

"Would you like anything to drink?" the flight attendant repeated.

"I'll just have some water, thanks," the man said. The flight attendant deftly scooped some ice into a plastic cup and filled it with water. She handed it over in front of Apollo's line of sight. The man reached over in front of him and took it from her.

And then he saw it. It was only for about a second, but it was enough.

Apollo waited for the flight attendant to push the cart further down the aisle before he reacted. When he was sure she was far enough away, he turned and stared openly at the man to his left. He looked back at Apollo, his expression neutral.

"Is something wrong?" he asked lightly.

A million words crashed through Apollo's mind but the ones he chose were not the ones he wanted. "Nothing," he said. "I'm sorry."

The man went back to staring out the window, but Apollo didn't look away.

He had brown eyes, brown hair, and he was wearing a dark shirt with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A tattoo sleeve was visible on his right arm: a series of bright red roses leading down to his wrist ended just above a deep white horizontal scar on the back of his hand. Apollo's gaze lingered on the scar before he looked up at what he could see of the man's face.

His jawline, his nose, the shape of his mouth—Apollo couldn't pin down anything in particular, but all together it was unmistakable. He was looking at Kristoph Gavin.

But that was impossible.

 _He knew he looked uncomfortable, because he felt incredibly terrified. His hands were cold and clammy, and his breathing was shallow._

" _You don't have to do this if you don't want to, Apollo."_

" _Do you want to?" he asked._

 _Phoenix sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Apollo had never seen him touch his hair before._

" _Yes, I want to. He was… he was my friend. I can't pretend that wasn't true."_

 _Apollo knew he had little with which to compare. Working for Gavin for two summers and a year couldn't possibly measure up to the kind of relationship that Phoenix Wright had with him for so long._

" _I just feel like this isn't really my business," Apollo said. "I don't want to intrude on anything."_

" _Well...It would mean a lot to Klavier for you to say goodbye," Phoenix replied. "But you should only do what makes you comfortable."_

 _Apollo nodded but didn't make a move to leave. They sat in silence until Phoenix exhaled slowly and Apollo realized he was just as nervous as he was._

It had been so hard on Klavier. The prosecutor tried to hide it, of course, but hiding that much grief is too tall an order for even the best of actors. Apollo heard him sobbing when he thought no one could hear him. _You loved him so much._

It was not new behaviour. Daryan had been executed six months previously and they went through this before. But this was worse, because how could it not be? Apollo would rush home as many times as he needed to, but it would never be enough.

"I watched you die," Apollo whispered. He knew the man didn't hear him. He didn't want him to.

 _Apollo regretted not coming by himself. He felt like the most depressing third wheel of all time as the other two men spoke to one another quietly. He stood by the door and stared down at his feet._

" _Justice," Kristoph said, looking over at him from his extravagant chair. "Why did you come here?"_

 _It was such a blunt question, but he couldn't respond in kind-it would sound too ridiculous, so he didn't say anything at all. He simply stared back at Kristoph and hoped it would be enough. The man continued to look at him expectantly, eyes bright and inquisitive, so it clearly wasn't._

" _It felt like the right thing to do," he settled on._

 _Kristoph tilted his head. "Really," he said, but it wasn't a question. His tone was strange. Too honest. He was hard to read at the best of times, but this was another level entirely._

 _Phoenix rose from his own seat and gestured towards Apollo. "If you'd like me to leave—"_

" _No," Apollo said too quickly. Kristoph's expression changed into something equally subtle and unsolvable, and Apollo felt as though the room had run out of air. He stared back down at his feet and chewed on the inside of his mouth as he so desperately wished to melt into liquid and seep quietly into the shallow cracks in the floor._

 _He slipped away from their meeting early—probably gone unnoticed—and hid in the public washroom, slamming his knuckles into the wall until he left dark red blotches on the off-white paint. Phoenix found him about half an hour later and said nothing as he helped him to his feet. He didn't comment on the attorney's blood-stained knuckles, the conspicuous stain on the wall behind them, or the puffiness under Apollo's eyes. They went home in silence and never mentioned it again until they had to go back to the prison one final time._

Apollo could feel a strange emotion coursing through him like a drug, filling him quickly with a thin and shallow confidence that had no outlet. He grasped the armrest tightly and leaned his head back into the seat.

"Excuse me," he heard from the left as he sat there with his eyes closed. He opened them and looked over.

It couldn't be him. There was no possible, conceivable, imaginable way it could be him. Right?

The man moved to stand up and Apollo jumped to his feet too quickly. Politeness was a reflex for him—Kristoph had always respected that. It made the clients feel at ease, he said. Treat them with so much respect and they'll think twice before being rude to you.

The man moved into the aisle and Apollo sat back down. He glanced over at the man's bag and resisted the impulse to dig through it. Maybe it wasn't him, or maybe somebody would see and he would look like a complete jerk—

He slid the zipper open and peeked inside. A dark cotton jacket was stuffed into it and nothing else was visible. He zipped it back up and exhaled sharply in frustration. It wasn't enough. He'd regret it forever if he never found out.

Apollo slowly rose to his feet and looked around. By now the sun had completely set, so most passengers were asleep or at least approaching slumber. The cabin was very quiet as he ambled down the aisle towards the washroom. He turned his head slowly. There were no attendants in sight.

The door to the washroom soon quietly slid open and Apollo waited for the split-second it took to register that it was the right person. He lurched forward and pushed the man back into the washroom as hard as he could and carefully slid the door shut behind him with his heel. They stared at one another under the harsh fluorescent lights and loud hum of the plane's engine. The man's eyes—brown—were wide and confused, but he made no move to push Apollo's hands off his shoulders and leave the cramped room. His shirt was soft.

"What the fuck," Apollo snarled in a tone that almost scared himself. "How the fuck did you—how are you—what the _fuck_ ," he could only manage. His head was spinning, he felt dizzy. The lighting made for a better look at the man, and it could not have been anyone else.

He realized for a moment the absolute absurdity of the situation, and wondered how he would react if someone described it in abstract all those years ago: _Hey Apollo, in five years you're gonna physically assault your former boss in an airplane washroom and yell profanity at him because you thought he was dead._ _Have fun._

"You're supposed to be dead," Apollo said brusquely. The man raised his eyebrow at the comment, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. He didn't say anything.

His lack of reaction quickly drained the confidence from Apollo, and he pulled his hands away and took a step back. His eyebrows furrowed as the next emotion in the grief queue made its way to the front.

 _Was he yelling at a complete stranger?_

But he remembered the scar he saw earlier—that was too much of a coincidence. Apollo reached down and grabbed the man's right hand and turned it over. It was the same scar.

"No thank you," said the man, pulling his hand away. "I'm not interested."

"I—"

"If you're desperate to join the mile-high club, try finding a willing participant beforehand. That will save you a lot of embarrassment, I'm sure."

 _Yeah, it was definitely Kristoph Gavin_.

Apollo sighed. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean. How did you...not die?"

"What sort of question—"

Apollo slammed his fist against the metal wall. The hum of the engine almost completely drowned out the sound, however, and Apollo was thankful.

"You know what I mean!" he barked again. "I was at your execution!"

Kristoph shook his head gently. "We all have our secrets," he said. "I don't ask you for yours."

"You killed people."

"So it has been established."

"Have you killed any more?"

Kristoph smiled and folded his arms, leaning back against the plastic cupboard behind them. "What kind of serial killer do you take me for?" he asked. "You make me sound so violent."

"Well, have you?" Apollo asked.

"No."

Apollo wasn't sure what sort of answer he was expecting. But he knew that he believed him.

A few seconds passed and Apollo was beginning to feel awkward—what do you possibly say? But he didn't know how to get out of the situation he had recklessly tossed himself into.

"How's the job?" Kristoph asked casually, as if he was sipping coffee in a spacious local cafe instead of forced backwards into a closet-sized washroom by one of his previous employees. He clearly had not lost the ability to gain the upper hand in a social situation.

"Fine," Apollo said, equally as casually. He started to wonder why he wasn't angrier, why he wasn't demanding Kristoph march out of the washroom and turn himself in and _oh my god he needed to call Klavier right now._

"Fine? That's all?"

"It's great. Mr. Wright is a good boss." _He doesn't need to know about Khura'in._

"I'm sure," Kristoph responded, and a strange smile passed over his face. "He is a good man."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing more than what I said, Apollo." Hearing his name felt jarring, but Apollo couldn't place why. "Where are you going, by the way?"

Apollo swallowed hard.

" _Don't tell him about us, okay?" Apollo said. "I really mean it. He can't find out."_

 _Klavier rolled over and stared up at the ceiling._

" _Why not?" he asked. "I don't think he sees you any differently, Schatzi. This is really between him and Herr Wright."_

" _I know, but I'd just feel better if he didn't know."_

 _Klavier smiled._

" _Why, you think he'd be jealous?" he joked. He started to laugh—clearly a result of the wine they downed too quickly—but Apollo didn't find it so funny._

" _Just promise me, okay? Please?" he said._

" _Of course, Apollo. I won't do anything that makes you uncomfortable."_

But yet.

"Atlanta," he replied honestly.

Kristoph raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Visiting someone? With someone else?" he asked vaguely. But they both knew exactly what this was about.

"He said he wouldn't tell you," Apollo said.

"Klavier told me a lot of things. Why didn't you want me to know?"

Apollo was still standing close enough that he could clearly see Kristoph's eyes. He saw the faint curved line near his iris that betrayed the fact that he was wearing contacts. This shade of brown was much different than the bluish-grey that he naturally possessed.

Apollo didn't answer that question. "I'm going to tell him, you know."

"Ha! No, you won't."

Apollo frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I know you won't."

He could feel the anger returning to him, seeping into his blood. "You can't know that," he said. "I'm going to tell your brother because he deserves to know that you're still alive! Do you know how much this fucked him up? He thought you were _executed_ and he was so upset and you don't even care—"

This time, Kristoph was the one to shove Apollo back against the door. He leaned in, much too close, and put his lips against Apollo's ear. His breath felt hot, and Apollo shivered.

"If this was about Klavier, you wouldn't have followed me in here," he hissed. He reached up and Apollo heard a click—the door hadn't been locked. "Do you feel brave, Apollo?" he asked, lips brushing against his ear again.

"Not particularly," Apollo said through his clenched jaw. "Maybe I'll tell your parents too," he added too quickly.

"You talk big," Kristoph whispered darkly. He was still gripping Apollo's shoulder tightly with one hand. The other now rested threateningly around Apollo's neck. It was cold. "What else will you talk about? Maybe you'll mention how different their sons look now. How you can no longer squint and pretend that one is the other when you're—"

"It's not like that," Apollo interrupted, stepping to the side and glaring back at Kristoph with disgust. "You don't even know me anymore."

" _Anymore_ ," Kristoph emphasized, and simply moved closer to Apollo again. He placed his hand on Apollo's neck again with a gentler touch this time. "I know you're not going to say anything, because you're relieved. You're glad I'm here and not rotting underground. It's harder to fantasize about the dead, isn't it?"

Apollo's heart was pounding. He was afraid to move or say anything and betray his thoughts and utterly lose the rest of his dignity.

 _He never felt guilty until later when it was already over. But the guilt would suffocate him like it never used to before everything fell apart. And before he pieced it back together in all the wrong ways._

 _His grip tightened around his cock as he leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes. It was always the same, these fantasies. Various places and contexts, but always the same man._

 _This time they were simply here in his dusty Khura'inese office: he was standing in front of his desk, leaning flat against it, with his head resting on top of some papers he'd been poring over earlier. He was completely dressed, with his pants pulled down and his ass exposed. He was waiting patiently for Kristoph to take him roughly and thoroughly like he did in most of Apollo's recent imaginary sessions._

"I saw how you watched me when you thought I couldn't see," Kristoph said, a little louder this time. Apollo didn't look up to meet the man's gaze and focused instead on the emergency call button next to the sink.

"And how was that?" he asked, playing with fire.

 _He took his time, spreading lube generously over two of his fingers before sliding them carefully into Apollo. This part was always much gentler than what came later. He moved them in and out slowly, curling them downwards._

 _No guilt yet._

 _Apollo was breathing loudly through his nose as he stroked his cock slowly, teasing himself. He opened his eyes and reached into the box on the floor next to the couch. He pulled out a mostly-empty bottle of lube and a thick purple silicone dildo. Swinging his legs up onto the couch, he laid down flat and kicked off his pants. He took a deep breath and let go of his hardened cock to open the bottle of lube. He smoothed the cool, viscous liquid across the tip of the toy evenly._

Kristoph took a step back and Apollo got another look at the tattoo that covered most of his forearm. Red roses and a few white five-petal flowers Apollo didn't recognize.

"God, you're hopeless even now," Kristoph said. He smirked.

 _He pushed the dildo inside himself quickly and forcefully as his thoughts drifted back to his position at the desk. Kristoph grabbed Apollo's hips tightly and slid his cock into Apollo, filling him entirely. It felt so good...Apollo moaned helplessly._

" _Do you want me, Apollo?" Kristoph asked._

" _Yes," breathed Apollo._

" _I didn't hear you?"_

" _Yes, fuck, fuck me," he panted. He reached down and desperately pumped his erection with his right hand._

 _Kristoph slammed his own cock into Apollo over and over. His balls slapped against Apollo's ass loudly as the younger man grabbed onto the desk with both hands, trying not to make any more noise than he already was. He exhaled loudly as Kristoph dragged his nails down his back._

Kristoph tilted his head.

"You're just staring off into space now, Apollo. Shall we go back to our seats?" he asked lightly, smiling.

Apollo turned around to avoid the other man seeing his flushed face. He reached up to unlock the door when there was a knock from the other side.

"Are you alright in there?" an older voice called. "You've been in there for an awfully long time…"

Apollo instinctively turned back to Kristoph, who laughed silently at Apollo's concerned expression.

"Just a moment," he called out, but there was no response.

"After you," Kristoph gestured towards the door. Apollo unlocked it and slid it open. An elderly man stared at them, mouth agape, and Apollo wanted to die.

They moved back to their seats in the dark and sat quietly. Apollo didn't try to read or fall asleep—he sat there, face burning, and throat thick with shame and disappointment. He could have used that moment to learn more about the man, to express how much Klavier missed him, to do _anything_ productive at all. But he squandered it.

Furthermore, he was more of an open book than he hoped to be. That, or Kristoph made a lucky guess. Either way, the man was humiliatingly correct.

And he wasn't going to say anything.

—

Apollo rubbed his face with his hands and turned his head to the left. Kristoph was sitting there with his back straight, completely awake. He looked back at Apollo without an expression.

"I think you know what it is you need to do," he said quietly.

Apollo nodded, too disgusted with himself to pretend to disagree or play dumb. "Yeah," he said softly.

"And you will never see me again."

"I know."

"Is there anything left that you'd like to say?" Kristoph asked.

Apollo looked past him out the window at the black sky. The passengers had been instructed to put their seat belts on for descent, but Apollo still couldn't see any Boston lights. His layover was only an hour before he departed for Atlanta, but it was going to feel like an eternity.

"Yeah, there is."

Kristoph nodded silently, so Apollo kept whispering.

"You don't deserve this second chance. You don't, and you never will. You're a terrible person and your brother deserves so much better. Everyone does."

Kristoph met Apollo's gaze. "Noted," he whispered.

"But I'm glad you're not dead," Apollo finished. He sighed. "And you don't deserve that, either."

"Neither do you."

"I know."

"This is your problem, not mine."

"I know, sir."

"So let's not get high-and-mighty about what he deserves."

Apollo leaned back in his chair and felt the plane touch back down onto the tarmac. The passengers behind him clapped. He hated when people did that. Why would you clap when the alternative is tragedy?

—

He saw Klavier in the crowd before Klavier saw him. He pulled his bag behind him, ignoring the grating sound of the metal scraping against the floor.

"Klavier!" he called. "Klavier!"

The prosecutor turned and his face lit up in a devastatingly happy expression as saw Apollo. "Hey!"

Klavier crushed him in a tight hug and kissed the top of his head.

"I missed you so much, Apollo," he said. "It's been way too long."

Apollo pulled himself away and looked up at Klavier.

"I don't have any other bags. Let's get out of here, okay?"

Klavier looked concerned. "Is there something wrong?"

 _Apollo came violently, coating his stomach in the white liquid. He waited a few seconds to catch his breath before he slowly pulled the dildo out of his ass and set it gently on the floor next to the box. He lay on the couch, motionless, and tried to steady his ragged breathing. This was usually the part where the guilt threatened to choke him._

 _Ah, there it was._

 _He was a lawyer who masturbated frequently in his office while always thinking about his boyfriend's executed brother._

 _Justice comes for even the worst of society._

 _He sat up and reached for a tissue, wiping the semen from his torso but leaving a shiny, slick residue. He looked over at the photo on his desk. It was a selfie Klavier had taken on stage in front of a roaring crowd. He looked so happy._

 _Apollo placed the frame face-down against the desk and reached down for his underwear. The small stains of pre-cum felt cold on his leg._

"Yeah. I'm so sorry, Klavier… I think we need to talk."

 _It was what he needed to do._


End file.
